


i'm the fury in your head (i'm the ghost in the back of your head)

by lazarov



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Obsession, Run-On Sentences, cosmic bullshit, harry styles might be peter pan, what is this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-29
Updated: 2012-06-29
Packaged: 2017-11-08 19:36:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/446759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lazarov/pseuds/lazarov
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Maybe that would make it real.  Maybe some fucked up concentration of cosmic energy, of psychic power, focused by the lens of all those girls moaning and gasping in unison could make the universe bend and snap back to formation, if only ever so slightly differently.</p>
            </blockquote>





	i'm the fury in your head (i'm the ghost in the back of your head)

_  
_

It's about _fucking around_ with Louis.  That's what it has to be, what it has to _appear_ to be.  And so that's what it is.  

He gives him a not-so-gentle bite between his shoulder and neck and drags slowly away, leaving a graze of _one two three four five six_ lines.  His eyeteeth leave the sharpest, most vivid red of them all.  Seeing Louis' skin raise along the marks makes him hard almost instantly, and luckily it's just banter between songs and he has time to turn around and regain his composure under the show of downing a water bottle.  He looks over his shoulder and sees that Louis is grinning at him, rubbing a hand over his neck with faux-outrage on his face and giving him a wink.  It's just _fucking around_ , riling the girls up.  They, the five of them (Harry included), live for that shit.  

But it's so much more than that.  With one little graze of his teeth, Harry can make 'em all go home after the show and listen over and over and over again to their CDs, their fucking iTunes accounts, whatever, with their eyes closed in the dark, make them think about _what could be_ , make them imagine what might go on later that night in a hotel room, in a cramped bunk.  As if a thousand teenage girls, laying in their beds and imagining him fucking Louis into the sheets, fucking him so hard that he has to clamp a hand over Louis' mouth to keep him from crying out, to keep him from waking Niall who's just across that cardboard door that separates his and Harry's rooms, will make it real.  As if it'll make it more than just a thought, more than just a game he plays by himself (and he has to admit he doesn't  even know the rules).   

_I do believe in fairies._

__

_I do, I do._

Maybe a thousand isn't enough.  A hundred thousand girls, all touching themselves under the covers at night while imagining him dragging his tongue up the underside of Louis' cock.  Their fantasies spurred on by faux-surreptitious, semi-farcical batted eyelashes during "What Makes You Beautiful," by a hand slipped into a back pocket during "Tell Me a Lie" (with an added pinch that's as subtle as a stage whisper).  Maybe that would make it real.  Maybe some fucked up concentration of cosmic energy, of psychic power, focused by the lens of all those girls moaning and gasping in unison could make the universe bend and snap back to formation, if only ever so slightly differently.  

No no no.  It's just _fucking around_.  He has to remind himself constantly that what exists in his head is different from what exists on stage is different from what exists when they're all sitting at breakfast in their sweatpants and bed hair.  He has to concentrate to keep himself from tangling his fingers in Louis' underneath the table, from rubbing their knees together, because that's not _real life_ yet, it hasn't been willed into existence from the ether by five hundred thousand girls thinking about last night's hand dragged slowly across Louis' waist, the hand on the back of his neck during his "Moments' solo the night before that ( _maybe too on-the-nose,_ he thinks later), the thumb drawn gently down Louis' jaw the night before that that made the girls all scream, made the flashes all grow brighter.

And yet he spends so much time worrying about being _obvious_.  He has to spread it around, be chummy and handsy with all the boys to avoid anyone noticing that he has intentions, has prey.  He dances with Niall, nuzzles Liam. Zayn is harder for him, harder to read and therefore, obviously, more intimidating.  Zayn, to Harry, means tiptoeing, and tiptoeing means being mates, all palsy-walsy hair musses and rib pokes and ball slaps.  

He suspects that they, NiallZaynLiam, can sense the drop in intensity when his touch, his gaze, is directed toward them.  Not a drop in sincerity, never in sincerity, since he loves them all, all in their ways.  But he loves them differently.  Differently from Louis.  He knows that the girls, even over the mania and the shouts and the flashes, can certainly sense it too.  But that's why he _believes_.  

 _He does, he does_.  

If it's honest, if it means something, then, well.  _Then it has to come true, doesn't it?_   

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> [Written to the soundtrack of Foals - Spanish Sahara (Deadboy Remix).](http://youtu.be/Lk24ujPN4Lo)


End file.
